Tag: Poetry

Society, Anxiety – Those two rhyme, don’t they?

Pull the band taut, Pull it back, flick it, Don’t be surprised when it creaks Under the might of your fingers. The more you pull me, the less I can give, The less I can stretch, The less I can live. I’ve come to terms with my Lack of elasticity,

A plea

Stop Worrying About being a friend, And being accepted as a friend, And friendships unraveling before you as a roll of ribbon, And you try to put it back together neatly and the way it was before but once unwound the ribbon doesn’t take, Doesn’t want to take, never wanted

Night Terrors

It starts with a tightness: You wake to feel your heart Coming out of your chest, As if manipulated by some unseen force– And that is what you believe, If only for a moment, As you’re sprinting down the hall, Legs caught up in bedsheets, Slowly embarrassing yourself into stopping


White-knuckled moments, Rapid eye movements, Too many measuring cups, Not enough trust. The list is smeared, The counter a mess, I spent too much time And I made too much fuss. Into the bowl, now, The shell breaks apart, And it’s pooling, impossible, Spoiled. If I can’t do this properly,

This Will Only Help Me Move On

I used to think I could only trust myself. Anything else Was just inevitable heartbreak, Everyone else had their interests in mind, And the only eyes watching my back Were mine. Trust is such a terrible thing. It leads you into submission, Waving its rattle to distract And all in

Birds are singing, Squirrels chasing squirrels. I nod my greetings to my neighbors. And the shining sun Makes the river reflect — The world glitters around me. Heat on my back, Color reaching my cheeks. The breeze plays games With my skin, Loose strands of hair floating and falling On

So Strike It

I will not fear. I will not forget. I will stand with those who stand for justice, Fight with those who fight for love, Clasp hands with those who pray for reason, And remember those who did the same. What little I can do — Fight for the arts, fight


My toes sink into the soil around me. It is not clay, it is not sturdy,     but it is ground,     and it feels good. And maybe it’s temporary,     placed there by our own hands,     by our own demands,     the sands

Rhyming as Therapy

Why can’t I┬álive future memories as I do when I relive them? I don’t treat time as I should– I want it to be steady. Because change is good, But only when I’m ready. But time has the frustrating ability to be steady and changing at the same time. Constant,


If there’s a place for one’s sorrow to crawl, then let it crawl. For one’s pain, embarrassment — for one’s inability to tear down one’s past view of the future. To stare at it and see it as foreign, a canvas once put up that bleeds into the wall, forever

Website Powered by WordPress.com.